


Fight For You

by SuedeScripture



Category: Actor RPF, Star Trek RPF
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-28 22:44:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/997791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuedeScripture/pseuds/SuedeScripture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Overused trope is overused, I'm sure everyone's read a version of this in every fandom ever. But I'm new and have yet to encounter it in <i>this</i> fandom, and it's a trope because tropes never get old right? Right.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Fight For You

**Author's Note:**

> Overused trope is overused, I'm sure everyone's read a version of this in every fandom ever. But I'm new and have yet to encounter it in _this_ fandom, and it's a trope because tropes never get old right? Right.

"You… are an idiot."

This clearly does nothing at all to lift Chris' mood. He's still fuming and huffing and tense as a bull in a matador's ring, leather jacket and t-shirt smelling of beer, and his face looking an awful lot like it had in a couple Jim Kirk: Bar Brawler scenes, only this time the blood is real.

Chris snuffles and tongues the cut on his lip incessantly.

"Bathroom."

"What for?" Chris snaps.

"Because you stink, asshole," Zach bitches right back, steering him by the shoulder until the lights flick on bright. Pulling the jacket from his shoulders—he'll likely have to have it professionally cleaned— he drops it to the floor. Guiding Chris to sit on the toilet lid, he dampens a washcloth under the faucet and digs under his sink for the first aid kit. The instant Chris sees it, he's getting to unsteady feet again.

"The fuck, man, I don't need that shit—"

"You're just Mr. Manners when you're drunk, aren't you?" Zach mutters, pushing him easily back down on his ass. Going to his knees in front of him, he gently wipes at the blood on Chris' face, trying to find what is bleeding and what isn't. Chris winces at his cheekbone involuntarily; it's going to be black and blue by tomorrow, but at least the nosebleed has stopped. His bottom lip is split down the middle, making it swell as he continues to poke his tongue at it. The knuckles of both hands are raw, skin bruised and scraped, and his hands are still trembling, hyped on caffeine, alcohol and adrenaline.

"Why did you do that?" Zach asks gently, once he's dabbing at the cuts with peroxide and cotton pads.

Chis shakes his head, whatever alcohol he has in him burning off swiftly. His bloodshot eyes hold on a point on the bathroom wall, refusing to look at him. Even when Zach takes chin and makes him look, Chris' eyes drop closed. Zach takes a deep, annoyed but patient breath, the sort a teacher does when you're fucking off in class and they'll wait and stare at you forever until you realize you're being a prick. 

Chris' eyes open, an electrical storm of fury and more, and then quickly drop to the floor between his knees. Zach takes Chris' right hand, swiping delicately at the scrapes over his knuckles.

"Fucker shouldn't have called you that," Chris mutters, eyes watching Zach's hands work. "That's all."

Zach smiles a little. "It's hardly the first time I've heard it, Chris."

Chris is silent as Zach tends to the other hand, then squeezes, "First time I have, though."


End file.
